


Unrealistic

by Writing-Rammstein (writingfanfic)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Broken-Down Car, F/M, First Meetings, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 22:24:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Rammstein
Summary: For the prompt: 'Reader's car breaks down in the middle of nowhere and luckily theres a farm house nearby. Till invites the reader to stay the night since it's getting dark outside and they immediately like each other and...well, some smut ensues.'Do you ever just accidentally write 3500 words of smut? I do.





	Unrealistic

“No! No…”

You put your hand over your eyes, and then look around. You’ve made it. A double-whammy. Not only has your car broken down, but you’ve just locked your keys, bag, and mobile phone in there. You’d find a river and jump into it to complete the fuck-up, but you’ve locked the map in there too so you can’t look where the nearest one is. Magnificent. Truly great, and it’s beginning to get dark.

You look around, and there’s a gate at the end of a driveway just down the road, a couple of hundred yards away – its open, so presumably it isn’t some kind of estate or something. You have nothing better to do – your car is pulled over at the side so hopefully it won’t be punted into oblivion by a lorry or something down these back roads (more likely a tractor), and so you begin to trek down the road, shaking your head. At least it isn’t raining. It could be raining.

The trail is clearly a drive – it’s fairly well-used, though a little rustic, and you follow it until you see a house, about five minutes away. This is not the sign of a sociable person, you think, and exhale. Well, if they turn you away, you know what to do – but you really don’t want to smash your car window. You’ll try this first. It seems sensible.

The door is very large, and very solid, varnished but not painted. You’re sure whoever lives here is really, really friendly and wants lots of visitors all the time, but you knock anyway, and there’s a second before you hear someone moving around. Shifting from foot to foot as the evening’s chill begins to sink in, you swallow nervously, and then the door opens.

“ _Kann ich dir helfen?_ ”

You freeze. The man at the door is two things.

One is drop-dead gorgeous; he’s built like a brick outhouse, with dark hair and a floppy fringe, and a jaw you could bounce a car off – he towers over you, and the only softness in his entire appearance is his eyes, which are piercing even in the gloom which is settling over the German landscape.

Two is Till Lindemann. You know this guy, from the tail-end of your embarrassing high school ‘edgy’ phase, and most of your younger friends’. This is the lead singer of Rammstein, or more importantly, a teenage crush of yours, and you swallow sharply, conveniently forgetting all your German.

“Oh, uh, um…”

“ _Wer bist du?_ ” he asks, sharply, and you swallow.

“Oh, uh…  _es tut mir leid, aber_ , uh, I, uh… my car…  _Mein Auto…_ ” You shake your head.  _Stop stammering!_  “My… uh. My car broke down. I’m… I’m travelling, I, uh…” He looks you up and down, and you close your eyes. Better just… spit it out. “I’m sorry, sir, my car broke down a little way down the road, and I’m sorry to disturb you, but… uh, I locked my keys inside it, and I really need to call my friends…”

“Oh.” His face softens a little, and he smiles tightly, stepping inside. “Please. Come in, and use my phone.” You relax. “What is your name?”

“(Y/N). I was heading to a friend’s house – it’s a long way to go and I was hoping to drive overnight.” You sigh, and he smiles.

“I am Till. Pleased to meet you, and I am sorry about your car. Do you wish me to try to fix it?”

“I, uh… I, yeah,” you say, gallantly, and see a note of caution in his eyes as he figures out that you know who he is. “I, no, no don’t, it’s perfectly fine, really. Just… I’ll call a repair service…”

“Allow me to try. I have some talent in this area,” he smiles. “The phone is here.” It’s an old, rotary-style phone in dark green – you smile at him, and he nods back. “Would you like a drink?”

“…no, thank you, honestly,” you say, and then dial in your friend’s number.

* * *

You replace the phone, and close your eyes, and a coffee is placed gently down on the table by a hand that makes the mug look like a teacup.

“What is the matter?” Till asks, and you shake your head.

“Oh, they won’t come and fix it until tomorrow. I don’t have the right kind of insurance,” you say. “And my friend can’t come and get me, because he’s drunk. I don’t… I don’t even really know where I am right now, haha.” You shake your head. “Uh… I’ll just-”

“You may stay here, tonight,” Till says, and you look at him – he may be a rock star and a celebrity, but recent news events don’t make you that confident that that makes him a good person, and he is a stranger. “I mean, if you are comfortable. I would not want you… sleeping in your car, if you could even get into it.”

“Are you… I couldn’t.”

“I insist. Have you seen how dark it is?” You look down the hallway – there’s a window at the end, and it’s nearly pitch-black out there already. You put a hand to your mouth, and then groan. “Please. Stay here. I have not made food anyway-”

“Oh, Till, I can’t intrude on you any more,” you say, and he shakes his head.

“In Germany, guests are fed and befriended, even if they are not expected. I do not plan to lock you in a room and release you at first light to fend for yourself.” He laughs, and you laugh too after a moment. “Please. Come with me.”

* * *

You smile as you stand in the doorway, and Till gestures around the room. You have both had, frankly, a gorgeous dinner, lamb and potatoes and gravy – he’s clearly a man of simple tastes, but since when has simple not meant excellent? You were hardly expecting a three-course Michelin-starred meal when you knocked, and he’s very good at cooking – and then a few drinks, sitting around and chatting. He’s extremely lovely, and intelligent as well, and you almost wish you were actually staying at his house for a little longer.

“Well, the bathroom is down the hall, and although I would not assume you will need it, I am in the bedroom down at the end.” He smiles. “I would not come bursting in. I do not sleep in clothes.”

“Understood. Thank you, so much,” you laugh, and he shakes his head.

“Don’t mention it. Goodnight, (Y/N).” He leans in to kiss your cheek, and you like the feeling of his stubbled cheek against yours- so much so that you find yourself hesitating for a moment, and as he pulls back a little, you end up face to face for a long, long while. It’s probably about five seconds in real life, but you awkwardly bump noses as you both go in for a kiss, and then he pulls back, blinking. “Uh-”

“I’m sorry,” you say, immediately, and he shakes his head.

“No, don’t be,” he says, that deep, accented voice sending shivers through you. “I… would very much like to kiss you again, though.” You respond by pressing your lips to his, running your fingers through that dark hair, and he holds you tightly, one arm around your waist. He feels very… secure. Goosebumps prickle up your arms.

“I want you.” You were going to finish that with a  _to kiss me_ , but the words die on your lips as you look into his green eyes. You just want him. You want this man you barely know, who seems about as far from the lead singer of the band you crushed on as you are from home right now, as this situation is from normal, and he nods slowly.

“I want you too.” Well, that’s settled. You kiss him again, and he puts his arm around you, guiding you down the corridor. “Uh… I… this is my room.” It’s cute – simple, furnished a lot like the rest of the place, wood and white paint and old, beautiful metal, and he guides you to the bed. “I… would like to inform you this does not happen to every damsel I rescue from a broken car.”

“Damsel,” you grin, rolling your eyes, and he kisses you again – your heart is pounding against your ribs but you don’t feel panicked or nervous. His touches are slow and heavy and very careful, and you lie on the bed next to him, face to face. You don’t want to be  _that person_ , but it… feels like you’ve known him much longer than an evening. “I don’t… normally do this either. Break down  _or_ … this.”

“I hope not,” he says, smiling, and strokes your cheek; as you kiss him again, you gently rest your fingers over the top of his fisherman’s jumper. He’s so warm, even through that. You wonder what he’ll be like to snuggle up to shirtless, and realise you are on a fast-track to finding out; his hand slides under your shirt to rest on your side, and you kiss him again. Everything feels a little… dreamy. That might be the glass of wine you had. You’re far from drunk, but you’re not sure you’d have the nerve to let this actual god touch you had you not had it. “You are beautiful.”

“You’re handsome,” you whisper back, and his fingers – you can feel the strength in his hands and it makes you feel weak – slide up further, cupping just underneath your bra, sliding his thumb over the fabric. His kisses are strong and insistent, but you still don’t feel uncomfortable; you kiss back, just as hard, wrapping your legs around his, and slide one hand under that jumper. He’s soft – his stomach is soft, anyway, but his chest is firm and broad and a little hairy. You die slightly internally, but his kisses are making your body tingle, especially when his tongue tangles with yours and you can feel his heartbeat, slow and steady, through the layers of his clothing.

“May I?” he asks, and you nod; he pulls your shirt up, and you immediately close your eyes. “No, no. You are beautiful.” He smiles at you. “I was fortunate you picked my door to knock on.”

“There’s not many doors in the area. Maybe it’s fate.” He rolls his eyes, smile widening to a grin, and then pushes you down, straddling your leg to run his fingers over you. Everywhere he touches feels electrified; you pull at his jumper, and he peels both it and the black t-shirt underneath off, revealing that torso. You have seen it – on videos. On the internet. You were never expecting to see it in person – at least, not without a few rows of people and concert security in the way.

“Whatever caused it, I am happy,” he smiles, and runs his fingers over your body, as if he’s trying to memorise it. You squirm a little as he passes over a ticklish spot, and he grins, dipping his head and kissing your stomach. His teeth nip at it a little, and you gasp – he kisses you again, this time just above the edge of your pants, and then again, just above your breast this time, and you sigh. His mouth is warm and his stubble scratches, and you stroke his leg with your foot, feeling yourself get wetter.

His fingers reach behind your back and deftly undoes your bra, throwing it aside; he lowers his head again, barely giving you time to consider that  _you are shirtless with a man you met today_  and licks your nipple slowly, tongue flickering over the tender skin – you moan under your breath, and his fingers sink into your hips, steadying you as your writhe. He switches to your other breast, and you pant as he laps at them gently, teeth pinching at them  _just_ enough to make you gasp. You shift your leg between his and feel him, hard, against your thigh, and you slide your hands down, wrapping your fingers around him. Oh. Indeed. Well, you’ll bust out the  _Young Frankenstein_ quotes afterwards, but wow. He moans – a deep, bass growl that makes your eyes flutter close as you pant, and you stroke him through his pants, feeling his hips roll into your hand as his jaw falls open, revealing slightly fanged teeth.

 “(Y/N)…” You bite at his lip, and he smirks. “I like you. Very much.” Your answer is to push your hand inside his comfy dad jeans, and he moans again as you stroke him, feeling him get harder in your hand. “ _Gott_ …”

“Baby,” you whisper, and he undoes your jeans, sliding them down before rubbing you through your underwear. You  _feel_  wet, but it’s only when he rubs you and your underwear sticks to you that you gasp a little. “ _Für dich._ ”

He purrs a little, deep in his throat, and then you slide your hand out of his pants as he shimmies yours down, throwing them aside, and then your underwear. You are naked in front of Till Lindemann.  _Eep_.

“You are…” His voice is oddly hoarse, and you look at him. “Very beautiful.” You cover yourself with your hands a little, and he bats them aside, gently kissing where before he gently bit at you. “I am lucky.”

“I think that’s me,” you sigh, and pull him up to kiss you, feeling his fingers slide into you as his eyes close. Your hands drift to his hair, playing with it, tufting it up into spikes and then smoothing it down as you kiss him, and he begins to rub circles on your clit with his thumb, crooking his fingers inside you. You feel good; so good and dreamy and light, and you grind down on his hand, biting at his bottom lip again as his stubble scratches you. He kisses down to your neck, and you gasp as he bites you back, leaving what will undoubtedly be a mark. You aren’t arguing, not by a long shot.

“ _Wunderschön,_ ” Till whispers, and you gasp, gently dragging your nails down his back and to his jeans, which you fumble with for a moment as he kisses along your jawline, and then push down far enough for him to take the hint and wriggle out of them, sliding his fingers out of you for a second – you whine and pout, which makes him grin – and then back into you, kissing you as hungrily as if a second’s loss of contact had starved him. You hook your legs around him, feeling his erection push against your inner thigh, and grin at the wetness you feel.

“You want me?” you whisper, and he nods. “Please.”

“Wait. Uh… you’re not… allergic to condoms or anything, are you?” he asks, and you take a moment to reflect who is asking you this, with his fingers inside you.  _Please do not let… that song get stuck in my head_ , you pray briefly.  _Not during sex. Not now_.

“No. I am on birth control, but, uh…”

He pauses, and then kisses you, sliding his fingers out of you, and wandering to a door in the wall. He looks – insanely, ridiculously, inhumanly hot, you decide, watching him walk out of the room with a hard-on, but he comes back with a packet, and opens it.

“I think it is best to err on the side of caution,” he says, and you snort with laughter. “Do not. Save it.” He grins at you, and then rips open the packet with his teeth – you’re going to replay that moment over and over a few times – before sliding it onto himself. You spread your legs, looking up at him and licking your lips a little – okay, maybe you had more than  _one_  glass of wine – and he climbs atop you once more, kissing you deeply. “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” you gasp, and he guides himself in you, pulling your legs around his waist as he does so – you whimper, and grind up against him, rubbing yourself against him in an attempt to get that feeling back. He feels so good, and you close your eyes, focusing on that feeling – you try and slide your hand between the two of you as he goes to do the same, and grin at each other again, smiling dazedly.

“Let me,” he says, and you can’t disobey that voice; you let him touch you, and clutch onto the purple, fluffy blanket on top of the duvet, focusing on how he makes your body feel as if flames are licking at it. One of your hands goes to his chest, and you dig your nails in, slowly dragging them down his skin to make him hiss, and he bites your lip this time, making your head spin – you feel him run his tongue against it as he sinks his teeth in, and you whimper.

“God, Till…”

He grinds into you, breath become a harsh intake and a snarl as he huffs it back out, and you slide your hands down his back, digging your nails in there too – if he’s marked you, you want him marked, come what may tomorrow. He huffs again, and you cling to him, nails digging into his ass.

He stammers your name, and then grinds himself deep into you, grunting gutturally – you close your eyes, focusing on the way he’s touching you, and as he slumps onto you, you feel heat flare in your stomach. He doesn’t stop – he barely lets up as you come, tightening around him and begging him in a gasping, desperate voice, and then as you finally wrap yourself around him again, he lets up, raising his shaking hand to brush your hair away from your face and kiss you again.

“Thank you,” he says, reverentially, and pushes himself up. You look up at him and smile, and he pulls you to sitting, kissing you.

“Thank you. Definitely.” You shake your head, and then yelp as he hauls you up into his arms bridal-carry style. “What-”

“You are a guest, and now you must shower. Let me show you the bathroom,” he says, and you decide – not that you had exactly fought it up until now – to go along with it, and relax, giggling, into his arms.

* * *

“Promise me that you will call when you arrive at your friend’s house.”

“I promise,” you smile, standing next to your car. Till has not been able to fix it, but he has been able to open it, and your friend is on his way to pick it up – Till is happy to keep the car and you will pick it up when you come back this way. Because you will be coming back this way. You know it.

“And promise me that you will call me when you leave.”

“I promise,” you smile.

“And that, when you go back to your home, you will call me then.” He smiles, and you hear a car in the distance. “And the day afterwards.” You feel a blush in your cheeks, and wonder privately if this was just a little rushed, happening in under 24 hours, but you don’t care. Some things feel  _right_ , and nothing has felt more right than this. He kisses you, gently stroking your hair with that paw of a hand, and as the car pulls up, you can’t quite bring yourself to break the kiss.

“(Y/N)!” You look to the left, finally, and wave at your friend, and Till looks at you sadly. You kiss him again, and climb into your friend’s car, throwing your bag into the footrest. Till and your friend exchange some banter  _auf Deutsch_  about the car, and then as you drive away, he looks at you.

“ _Was that Till Lindemann?!_ ”

“May have some explaining to do,” you say, beaming, and he rolls his eyes, before motioning to your neck – you look in the mirror, and remember the hickey, eyes wide.

“ _Yes! You do!_ ”


End file.
